Seducing the Duchess (15 page)
Read Seducing the Duchess Online
Authors: Ashley March
“Yes? It’s not as if I’ve never done it before. When we were younger, I—”
“You placed second in the cursing contests,” Philip finished. “Right after Charlotte.”
Lady Grey gave a tentative smile. “I would have won first, but I was not as fortunate as she was to have four older brothers to educate me.”
He chuckled.
The sound surprised him. But it felt good. Slow and deep, it lightened the tension in his chest, lifted his mood. Charlotte had done this. She had helped him to laugh again. “It’s strange, but I cannot remember ever hearing you curse before.”
Lady Grey’s smile faded, and her eyes turned watchful, wary. “I cannot say I am surprised, Your Grace. You rarely paid much attention to anyone other than yourself. You were always more concerned with what others thought of you, especially the old duke.” Her voice turned soft, yet was no less cutting for its gentleness. “Why did you buy the brooch, Your Grace?”
Philip ignored her question, all of his good humor having disappeared with her criticism. How quick she was to judge him, when she had been the one to jilt him so shortly before their wedding. “I find I have been erroneous in my judgment of you, my lady. Forgive me.”
He lifted the package from beneath his arm and withdrew the small box containing the peacock brooch. He thrust it toward her, loath to touch her and force her to take it in her hand.
“You are far more insightful and intelligent than I gave you credit for. Take the brooch. And take your damned opinions with it.”
She made no move, only stared at him with reproach and scorn and, damn it all, pity in her eyes.
Shrugging, Philip released the box, and saw with grim satisfaction that her hand stretched to catch it before it could fall to the ground.
“Good day, Lady Grey.”
Charlotte searched the library, the drawing room, Philip’s study. She even went so far as to creep around outside the door of his bedchamber, listening for any sound of movement inside.
It was amazing. Philip had left her, alone, at Ruthven Manor.
Her first impulse was to saddle Bryony and ride hell-for-leather back to London.
But she knew he would catch her, and even if she tried to hide, he would find her. Dukes had all sorts of connections. No, as long as she remained in England, she would never be able to run away from him.
She had once considered sailing off to America or even to the Orient to escape Philip and try to find Ethan, but she had promised her best friend, Lady Emma Whitlock, that she would wait until Lady Emma finished her current novel. Then they would go together. And Charlotte would never break a promise to Emma, not when she had been the only woman in London to befriend her despite the rumors of her licentious behavior.
Without escape as an option, Charlotte decided to act upon her second impulse, which was to ride to Norrey Hill and discover whether Joanna’s footman had returned from delivering the missive to Philip’s solicitor.
“Hullo, Scrope,” she said as Joanna’s butler opened the door.
“Miss Sheff—” Rheumy old eyes rounded in embarrassment, and he coughed as he corrected himself. “Your Grace. What a pleasure it is to see you. It’s been a long time.”
Charlotte frowned and took a step forward as he swayed. “You’re ill,” she accused. “Why are you not in bed? Surely Joanna would allow one of the footmen to answer the door.”
He shooed her hand away from his arm and tried to straighten. “Lady Grey and Matthews have gone to Henley-in-Arden, and Matthews is the only one I trust—”
“Matthews. He’s returned from London, then?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Not over two hours ago.”
Charlotte leaned in and snuck a kiss on the old butler’s cheek. She hid a smile as a blush rose over his paper-thin, wrinkled skin. “Thank you, Scrope. Now go get some rest.”
Scrope sniffed, loudly, probably more out of indignation than illness. “Yes, Your Grace.”
It took Charlotte no more than five minutes upon arriving in Henley-in-Arden to locate the footman Matthews. He was the only man who stood in the street as if frozen, allowing the small stream of villagers to mill around and past him.
She stayed Bryony a few yards distant from him.
As she waited for Joanna to appear from one of the shops, she noticed how he shifted his stance. It was slight, only a subtle transfer of weight from one foot to the other, but it was the first movement she’d observed of him in the past few minutes.
She followed the direction of his gaze to find Joanna and Philip in the center of the street.
Charlotte’s hands fisted on Bryony’s reins.
They had arranged for a rendezvous, after all.
No wonder Philip had left so suddenly. He had been worried he would be late for his appointment to meet with and woo his next wife. And how well Joanna played the part Charlotte had asked of her, her gaze locked intimately on Philip.
The whoosh of Charlotte’s breath seemed impossibly loud in her ears as Philip withdrew a small package from beneath his arm and held it out toward Joanna.
Charlotte turned away.
She counted the hills as she raced toward Ruthven Manor, Bryony’s legs steady and sure over the hard-packed earth and the brown swells of autumn grass, across well-traveled roads and through flower-laden meadows.
She counted her breaths, tried to make them match the heavy, striking sound of Bryony’s hooves.
In. Out. In. Out.
It was ridiculous, really, to feel this way.
Jealous—as if Joanna weren’t simply acquiescing to her request.
And betrayed—as if Charlotte hadn’t known Philip was interested in the widowed marchioness.
No matter how she tried to pretend—to herself, to everyone, but especially to Philip—the knowledge that her marriage was an utter disaster still hurt. And the pain of seeing him with another woman, even if it wasn’t his mistress, was just as sharp as ever.
Perhaps it was because seeing them together reminded her of how naive and foolish she’d been three years ago, to believe theirs was nothing less than a fairy-tale romance.
Or maybe it was because some misplaced sense of wifely outrage demanded she make him remember that, though he might have agreed to divorce her, English law nevertheless held them bound to one another, even if it was for only another few months.
God help her, she certainly didn’t want to believe it was something in Philip that still awed her. Something that continued to attract her to him and, despite her thorough knowledge of the kind of cold and calculating bastard he could be, made her want to believe there was hope for redeeming him.
Whatever the reason behind the dull, dreadful ache hitched high in her chest, Charlotte didn’t like it.
Only as the Rutherford stables came into view did she realize she had long since lost count of the number of hills they had traversed, and her breathing had deteriorated from a controlled pacing to unsteady, rambling gasps of air rife with curses.
One of the grooms offered to take Bryony and rub her down, but Charlotte opted to do the task herself, needing the methodical routine to calm down.
When she finished, as she was walking toward the house, she spied Philip riding toward her. He slowed when he saw her.
“Jackass,” she muttered beneath her breath, and swept toward Ruthven Manor, determined to ignore him.
She might not have been a model of genteel maturity, but it sure as hell made her feel better. A little righteous indignation went a long way.
“Your Grace,” he called behind her.
Charlotte snorted and kicked a pebble out of her way, pretending it was Philip’s head. Or his pea-sized brain.
Your Grace. Humph.
Always the proper duke, making certain he addressed her formally in front of the servants.
But she wouldn’t be the Duchess of Rutherford for very much longer.
Charlotte took a deep breath and exhaled, closing her eyes briefly.
Thank God for that.
The thundering of hooves across the ground compelled her to open them again, and she glanced over her shoulder. An unknown man rode past Philip as he dismounted from his stallion and drew up near the front entrance of the manor.
Before the man could knock, Fallon opened the door and glared through the slight crack. “Yes?” he queried suspiciously.
“I’ve a message for the Duke of Rutherford,” the man panted. “From Mr. Humbert A. Jones, Solicitor.”
Charlotte looked back at Philip, only to find his gaze already fixed upon her.
Chapter 9
“
I
am the Duke of Rutherford,”Philip said,stepping past Charlotte to tower over the courier.
I
am the Duke of Rutherford,”Philip said,stepping past Charlotte to tower over the courier.
She hurried to his side. She wouldn’t dare allow him to read the missive without her there, wouldn’t give him the slightest opportunity to hide from her whatever the solicitor said.
If he had double-crossed her and sent a second letter canceling his first request to petition for a divorce, she would know about it.
“Your Grace.” The messenger lowered his head and dug into the pouch at his waist.
Philip took the letter from his fingers and nodded to Fallon, who, upon his master’s arrival, had swung the door wide open.
“Give him two shillings for his trouble,” Philip ordered, then walked past Fallon into the foyer.
Charlotte skipped to keep up with him. “I demand that you allow me to read the letter.”
Philip never slowed his step as he approached his study, nor did he turn his head to address her, but continued walking, his back stiff and straight. “Come, Charlotte. I cannot dally all day, waiting for you.”
She would have dressed him down with a scathing retort, or an equally imaginative curse, but she found she needed most of her breath in order to jog her way to his side.
Of course, by that point, they had reached his study.
Philip opened the door and gestured inside, his arm outstretched, the letter pinched between his fingers. “Dearest.”
Huffing, Charlotte strolled past him, pausing briefly to snatch the missive from his hand as she did so.
The door slammed shut. He growled behind her, but she danced away from him. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. A hum of satisfaction filled her as she quickly scanned the note.
His shadow fell across her. “Give me the letter.”
Charlotte glanced upward. She held his gaze as she released the paper, allowing it to float downward. “I fear you’ll have to pick it up from the floor,” she said, smiling sweetly.
Philip’s eyes flicked to the carpet, then back to her face. The curve of his lips was nothing if not predatory, not at all what she had expected, and she turned toward the row of windows overlooking the lawn.
Charlotte leaned against the space between the windows and pretended to admire the landscape, but in actuality she studied him from beneath her lashes.
He had already bent to retrieve the missive, his expression half concealed, half exposed by the late-afternoon sun as he read. And all she could think while she watched him was that the play of shadows and light upon his face was like a mask upon a mask. She could see nothing of his thoughts from the line of his brow or the careful stillness of his mouth.
After a few moments of silence, when his eyes had stopped moving but still he kept his head bent, she spoke. “It seems you kept your word.”
He looked up then. “You sound surprised.”
She gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “In truth, I am. You are a serious man, which some believe implies that you are also honest, but sincerity has not often been a part of your character.”
“Philosophy, my dear? How . . . educated you have become.” Philip folded the parchment again and slipped it into his pocket. He widened the distance between them by moving to sit in the chair behind his desk.
Charlotte flattened her palms against the wall as she recognized his move for what it was: as a king had his throne, so a duke had his desk. He was reminding both of them of his status as her superior.
They stared at each other across the room, and she couldn’t help but remember how much he had frightened her that morning, how easily he could awaken desires she’d rather have presumed dead.
And it was precisely because his kisses lingered in her memory that she determined to be at her most alert and cautious. She would not give him the opportunity to use her desires against her once again.
Philip reached in his pocket, and Charlotte thought he was going to take out the letter again, but instead he drew forth a small package. He laid it on the desk in front of him and placed his hands on either side.
“I must confess, my darling, I am wounded that you continue to think so ill of me. I have become a changed man, remember?”
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